I Like to Move Around

www.secretlyfunny.com

If Katy Perry were here, I'd tell her that yes, sometimes I do feel like a plastic bag

I was about to delve into a dissertation on ways to survive the next four days of February. Because February is the purgatory of months. And I have decided to blame it for my problems. But I was interrupted by a Google search result. Which I'll get to later.

First, some clarifications.

My problems aren't problems so much as they are decisions. But I hate decision-making, especially in February. And because it is February (and because no amount of self-help books have been able to make me decisive) every time I make a decision, I end up unmaking it five or 10 minutes later.

You see, I could tell you that I'm sitting on my bed, wearing heart-spotted socks, trying to decide what to do with my life. But that wouldn't be exactly true. What I'm trying to do, actually, is to un-decide what to do with the rest of my life.

According to the quote section of Pinterest (which I have spent many a minute on lately, since my current coping mechanism for February funk is using Pinterest and Dove chocolates to fuel my addiction to inspirational messages), I should "be okay with no one else understanding," "let go, and see what happens," "don't settle if you haven't found it yet". And the one that I haven't pinned but keep repeating in my mind over and over, "If your dreams don't scare you, they're not big enough."

Forget the rules and follow your heart, Dove tells me every time I eat a piece of chocolate.

But Dove doesn't have to deal with the repercussions of heart-following. Dove just has to keep writing "calories don't count" on the tinfoil outsides of their chocolate so people addicted to inspirational messages will choose them over Hershey's. Every time. No matter what kind of discount the other brand is offering.

I know what my heart wants.

I know, because when I let myself fall into a daydream about it, my heart feels the way it does when a boy calls you pretty. It's the feeling I got when my 11th grade English teacher told me I did a good job on my essay.

I think it's also probably how the Grinch felt after he saved Christmas. But it's not fair to make references to endearing Christmas movies in February. So forget I said anything.

Point is, when I let myself think about my dream, my heart swells. I won't bore you with additional adjectives. I think you get my drift.

And that's why I'm here, half-covered with a fleece blanket, on the last Monday in February, trying to un-decide what to do with my life.

Because my heart has gone all rogue on me.

Hi heart, I'm going to need you to grow three times your size for something practical.

Maybe engineering.

Perhaps you could climb the corporate ladder at a yogurt factory.

No? No swelling?

Well what about project management at a local company. You could work your way up to it. And I think you have the right(ish) skill set for project management. That could be fun. Right heart? Do you feel it? Best idea ever?

No.

Oh.

Hmm.

You know, I think I'll start taking a fish oil supplement. Maybe with some additional Omega-3s, my heart will be better at smart decision making.

ANYWAY, I thought while I was coming up with a list of ways to cope with February, I'd let Google determine my future. (Remember the Google search I mentioned 22 paragraphs ago? I'm finally getting to it!)  Since my heart obviously can't be trusted, I decided to let Google help with some of the decision making.

 Before I posted my first two ideas for enduring February: 1. find a lucky penny and never let it go and 2. hibernate, I typed in happiest place into Google.

I was going to finish with happiest places to live, but Google finished my search for me and entered happiest place on earth, instead.

Top search result:

Magic Kingdom.

I just.

Well.

That's interesting.

Are you trying to tell me something?

Or is this just a February joke?

Really long story condensed down into a 10-word conclusion:

I still don't know what to do with my life.


Happy February!

I just ate an entire packet of hot chocolate without the hot or the water part.

I poured it into my mouth like a pixie stick.

It wasn't very good. And it didn't really melt properly, like pixie sticks do. You kind of have to chew it. I wasn't expecting that.

That was a couple of hours ago.

Now I'm testing other methods of forcing creativity. I'm lying on the ground with my feet above my head. Maybe the blood will rush to my brain. That's supposed to help with ideas, right?

Or if that doesn't work I'll just do interpretative dance moves to Mumford and Sons Pandora station. Surely interpretative dancing will spark something.

In addition to the aforementioned procedures, I've also been checking Facebook every 42 seconds, as if, at any given moment, something inspirational is going to pop up on my wall. I know what it sounds like, but idea isn't completely unsubstantiated.

One time I read a quote on Facebook that said, "Whenever you feel sad just remember that there are billions of cells in your body and all they care about is you. Okay?"

Now, sometimes, when I feel sad, I picture little cells floating around with smiley faces like the ones on goldfish crackers. I don't think I have to say this makes me happy. It's assumed, right?

Anyway, since my feet are falling asleep, and I still have no ideas, I decided to turn to Google for advice. It told me I should be open to bad ideas.

Thanks Google. I think I got that covered. Please refer to the pixie stick hot chocolate experience.

Don't worry Google. I have lots more bad ideas where that one came from.

Next up, urban camping in Walmart parking lots.

Selling hand-crafted tinfoil accessories on Etsy.

Crocheting seat covers for my car.

Starting a hedgehog obedience course.

Painting miniature masterpieces on toilet paper rolls then hanging them from my ceiling like a baby mobile.

Jump roping after 10pm on the highest floor of an apartment complex.

I'll let you know how it goes.

Today

On days like this one I just want to lie in the grass and watch the clouds.

But I don't.

Because I'm afraid someone will see me and call an ambulance.


Instead, I bring the dog home and get ready to face the laundry.

The dog says she will help. 

But I tell her not to worry. I have a plan to make laundry FUN!

I will turn my dirty clothing into an art masterpiece! Just like Queenie Liao did with her napping baby and a few well-placed sheets. 

Laundry won't get me down. 

It will sail me away into a world full of creativity, and adventure and probably wild things. 

Except. 

Well. 

I'm not sure I'm actually on the same--you know--material-placing, artistic caliber as Liao.

I mean. 

You can tell it's a mermaid, right?

Right? 

And then the dog gives me this look. She might as well just open her mouth and say it, "I wish I would have been sent home with a normal foster family." 

Sometimes I wish I was normal too, Honey Bunches. 

But it's not the wish I make on the stars, because it's not the one I want to come true. 

Today my wish is big and vague and stems from a google attention span that all connects but I don't have time to explain. 

So instead I'm just going to tell you that I think I tried to sell my creativity for perfection. 

I tried to sell anything I could to be perfect. 

Instead it made me small and scared to cross lines. 

I created a world that was black and white, and tried desperately to tip-toe in the white without ever touching gray. 

And now I'm trying to buy back my creativity by being brave enough to make mistakes. 

Because, I'm scared to say so, but I don't believe in the same black and white world I used to. 

I don't think God cares what we call Him. 

Allah. Jehovah. The Great I Am. 

I often call him Love. 

Because I feel closest to God when I love in a way that should be impossible. 

So today I'm trying to do that. 

And today I'm trying to buy back creativity with bravery. 

Not with laundry pieces. Because sometimes you have to leave things behind--let them go. And today, I'm letting laundry art go. 

And today I'm staring up at the sky, wishing I could lie down in the grass, and just watch for a while. 

There's so much color out there. 

Hardly any black or white at all. 

Aruthur Miller says "The best work that anybody ever writes is the work that is on the verge of embarrassing him, always." This is what I came up with.

One day, in the page behind my to-do list, I started writing a story.

Like Sally, I wrote, from that one movie I only watched half of*, I'm losing pieces of me as I go.

I promised myself once I wouldn't romanticize being broken. Because I want to be brave, and strong, and kind, and honest. And if I spend all my time setting myself up as a damsel in distress, I won't have any time to become the things I want to be.

I'd like to put myself back together. Sew seams that wouldn't rip. Put my head on straight and make it places prompt, classy and well dressed, I wrote.

Instead I'm showing up five minutes late with my hair wet and partially combed.

Someone called me silly today. Not in a mean way. Not even in a way that hurt my feelings.

Just in a way that made me think. Am I silly? Is that what I am? Is that what I want to be?

I'm not a broken human, I continued with my story.

Sometimes I can juggle tasks, and organize and keep the backseat of my car clean. 

I can. 

And on the busiest of days I can blow dry my hair and brush my teeth at the same time.

It's just that right now, I'm holding myself together. 

And sometimes I drop a limb. 

Sew it back on. 

Keep walking.

I think we try to define ourselves. We try to narrow ourselves down to a few adjectives. Because it would be easier if we could simplify ourselves to an acrostic.

Alec:
Amicable
Light-hearted
Entertaining
Courageous

What if I could always count on myself to be those things?

Then I wouldn't find myself wishing I would have spoken up when that boy told me he thought I was pretty.

And I wouldn't have to regret the thing I said, heard or didn't stand up against.

I wouldn't find myself running to work last minute. And the dishes piling up on my nightstand would disappear like they had been summoned by one of Mary Poppins' magic snaps.

I'm losing pieces of me as I go. 

But I'm going. 

I think I'm glad I'm more than a few words tied together by some acronym or another.

Because I get bored when things are always the same.

Monotone never suited me.

I'm glad I can surprise myself. Even if the surprise is that I'm silly.

There's good and bad in everything, I wrote behind the to-do list I would not make time to finish.

And the good part about me falling a little apart is I realize I'm not broken...

So I need to be easier on other people. 

Even if they get stuck resewing and resewing and resewing. 

I find myself working on the same things over and over and over.

Resewing and resewing and resewing.

I don't know why I get upset with other people for needing to resew their broken pieces too.

Maybe the next time I see someone falling apart. 

I'll remember how I fall sometimes too. 

When I make lists, not just about what I need to do today, but about what I want to do tomorrow, where I want to go, what I want to accomplish, who I want to be, I always add Africa.

When I'm brave I'll go to Africa.

Africa means one hundred different things to me.

Africa is telling someone you love them.

It's running away not because you want to but because deep inside your soul you know the only way to see the world is to run to it.

It's breaking habits that have kept you safe but not happy.

And it's learning to let yourself be a thousand different adjectives that move and change, appear and dissolve.

Sometimes I fall. 

I crack...

You can tell me don't panic about it. 

But that's like asking me to pick my arm off the ground and sew it back on. 

People will tell you there are a million things you need to be, have to be, ought to be.

Don't fall too hard for it. Everyone has a different Africa.

And like Jon Acuff says in the book I should probably re-read, "The starting line is the only line you're in control of."

I'm going to start.

Even if it means taking a couple of well-calculated risks.

Even if it means failing and restarting.

Even if it means resewing and resewing and resewing.

I'm going to start.

Because I want to see where this story goes.

OK, I wrote, in the pages behind my to-do list. I'll sew. But could you lend me some thread and maybe a needle? 





*The Nightmare Before Christmas

**Start

I'm such a waste of a day off

I'm in the space in my apartment between the kitchen and the living room. It's not a dining room exactly, but it's where the kitchen table lives, so you can call it that if you want.

The dryer is humming obnoxiously. No, not humming. It's more like a growl. An angry, taunting grumble. "It's almost 10pm and you haven't finished your laundry yet," it lavishes.

My dryer is mean--it finds pleasure in mocking my misery. Sometimes it breaks just to spite me. "You can hang dry that load of laundry if you want," it laughs, "but your clothes will never dry in this humidity! Never."

My hair is styled in a top-of-the-head bun that I have pulled on all day, resulting in stringy pieces feathering down my neck and getting in my eyes. The hairstyle of a girl who is supposed to be cleaning, but can't pull away from Downton Abbey or my 2014 calendar project.

My sister gave me a personalized calendar last year, and two or three days ago I realized when I flipped the month there would be nothing there.

I'm not sure if my concern (read: anxiety, panic, downward spiral of emotional feels with which I cannot cope) comes from the end of the year, or the end of the calendar. But I spent all day putting together a new personalized calendar, and I could not rest until I hit submit on the Walgreens order form.

Thank you Walgreens for letting me spend $30 to do all the work of calendar creating. Well played.

I didn't want to start the new year without a new calendar.

Something ought to be in order when 2014 rolls around.

Because my life--wonderful, unexpected, magical to the 10th degree--is not in order.

The laundry is unfinished, my bags are half-packed from a trip I've had plenty of time to unbox, and speaking of boxes, I have empty ones lying around my room just in case. My current foster dog likes to decorate the living room with fake snow, made by murdering her toys and carrying their stuffing across the carpet. And I'm pretty sure the black stuff in my bathroom is mold I'm supposed to report to the apartment complex. Don't worry, I have a solution for that. It's name is bleach, and there's a giant container of it sitting on top of the angry dryer.

What I don't have a solution for, is the itchy feeling in my toes and sinking sentiment in my stomach telling me it's time to go.

Get out.

Run away.

Pack up those empty, just-in-case boxes and drive to where the sidewalk ends.

Or where the sidewalk starts.

Or somewhere.

"Go somewhere," it says.

But it never tells me where.

"I love it here," I try to reason.

But itchy toes and sinking stomachs won't be reasoned with.

All this gypsy soul stuff might just be the fear of the new year. Maybe I'll stay here forever. Maybe once January 1 rolls around my anxiety will dissipate and I'll delete this post, embarrassed that I ever thought I was going to leave this place that has become home.

But the empty boxes, whose scribbled writing looks like question marks from where I'm sitting, make me  simultaneously impatient and sad.

Impatient for something new and unfamiliar.

Sad at even the thought of leaving people, places, things I love.

But you know what, I'm just so grateful to have something worth being sad about.

I'm good at apathy. The avoidance of unnecessary emotions is something I've practiced since fifth grade when I cried because I forgot to get my reading log signed. I've been careful to avoid risks and hurt and guilt and all those negative emotions people say you can rule out if you learn from the mistakes of others.

I'm still trying to avoid mistakes.

But I'm considering being slightly less misanthropic to the risks.

Just slightly.

Because the risk it takes to love--someone, something, some place--is worth even gut-wrenching sadness.

And I don't wish gut-wrenching sadness on anyone. Especially myself. Like I said, my sadness coping capabilities are majorly below par.

But I can't pretend anymore that even horrible sadness isn't worth loving like crazy.

I was writing quotes from children's books on my calendar because I'm immature like that. And when I was searching I found one from the surprisingly insightful Winnie the Pooh. It says, "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."

I know this sounds something like a goodbye letter. But that's not what it is.

It's a hopeful note to the new year.

This last year was a good one--one that I'm terrified to close the calendar on. But since you'll be here in two days, with or without my permission, I'll give you a chance too, 2014. I have high expectations for you. After all, I've just decided to embrace love, even with the risk of sadness and possible disappointment.

Even if the winds are changing, I'm counting on something wonderful.

I don't know what's in store for tomorrow. Or over-morrow, or the day after that.

But I've got a sturdy pair of running shoes, some empty boxes just in case, and a dryer I wouldn't mind walking out on.

And I've got a lot of things that would make saying goodbye really hard.

I guess that makes me--the girl  sitting in the space between my kitchen and my living room with falling out hair and too many dreams to cope with--one of the lucky ones.

Is This a Test?

I live in Florida now.

Which means, unfortunately, I am now susceptible to natural disasters. I moved away from Arizona because I was scared if I stayed any longer I was eventually going to end up with a scorpion in my bed.

Now I have tornado warnings, tropical storms and alligators in my neighborhood pond.

Smart thinking Alec.

Anyhow, long story (involving bathtubs, rooms without windows, 72 hour kits, a solar-powered storm watching radio, 4 gallons of water, a TV show called Storm Chasers, British soap and zombies) short, I have decided to take emergency preparedness a little more seriously.

I've been gathering a few cans of food here and there lest I be stuck in a hurricane with nothing to eat but half a tub of peanut butter and dry noodles.

I still haven't figured out how to work the storm radio or where the get-out-of-state-quick exit route is, but at least I'm doing something. Right?

Which brings us to last night. I bought a couple of extra gallons of water to replenish my emergency water stash. And I left those extra gallons in the car. Then I thought, right before turning on 17 hours of Netflix, I should fill up some of these empty gallons. Just in case. I know I have water in the car, but what if the stairwell crumbles and I can't even get outside.

'Darn you paranoia,' I told myself. 'Stop trying to ruin my 17 hours of Netflix watching.'

And then this morning, I ate a banana and my water turned off.

I tried the bathroom sink.

Nothing.

I tried the kitchen sink.

Nothing.

I even tried the shower.

Nothing.


And now I know my emergency preparedness kit should contain at least 10 pounds of hand sanitizer. And dry shampoo.


Grocery list:

10 pounds of hand sanitizer
Dry shampoo
Yogurt


I am also now researching the best way to store water, because I just realized 3 gallons of Publix drinking water isn't going to be enough to get me through an emergency. HELLO ALEC, YOU WASH YOUR HANDS WHEN YOU'RE NERVOUS.  I'm going to need a thousand gallons of water. At least.


Side note: I wanted to make sure I was using the correct version of store, because you know, sometimes you look at a word too long and it looks wrong. And wouldn't it be embarrassing if I spelled store wrong on my blog that no one reads? And so I typed it into Google. And guess what! If you type "I need to store" in Google, the number 5 suggestion is "I need to store cord blood." Which was mildly more entertaining when I thought it said "I need to store cold blood." Side note to the side note: I should possibly add wooden stakes to things needed for an emergency kit. You can never be too careful when it comes to emergency preparedness against supernatural beings. At least that's what I learned from 17 hours of Netflix.

Grocery list:
10 pounds of hand sanitizer
Dry shampoo
Wooden stake
Yogurt


Getting back to my no water story, you'll all be relieved to know that a county water line broke and the water is out in my entire apartment complex for a mere 'couple of hours.'

That gives me a couple of hours to not do my laundry, not wash my hair, not clean the dishes, not brush my teeth and not flush the toilet.

I can hold it, I can hold it, I can hold it.

Hey! Maybe I'll use this time to plug in my storm watch radio.

The real reason I don't turn my air conditioning on, is so I don't have to pay for hot yoga sessions

This morning I woke up, looked in the mirror, and said to myself, "Today is the day I take on the world." And then I thought, I should brush my teeth first.

And so I did.

I've been particularly cognizant of the dichotomy between dreams and reality of late. And equally aware of the fine line I walk.

I'm not sure if that makes any sense, but I'm going to try to explain it anyway.

With pie.

Today I went to the Great American Pie Festival.

A year ago, I dreamed of moving to a small town in the South, where people did things like dress in summer dresses and go to pie festivals. And today I went to one! I wore a sun dress and everything! I sat next to a pond covered in lily pads, and ate pie under the Florida sun. I thought, this is exactly what I want.

In reality, I paid $10 to eat grocery store pie and gain four pounds. And then I sweat off at least a pound of that as I was walking back to my car through the 90 degree, 300 percent humidity, weather.

And so this is my life.

Sometimes I wonder, is it better to be happy or realistic? And is it possible, to be both?

Because the realistic side of me understands that I am never going to be wealthy in the job that I'm in. It understands that I spend too much money, eat too many carbs, and haven't earned very many of the joys and lucks and blessings which I've been afforded.

On a more frightening note, the realistic side of me understands our nation is struggling, the world is wrought with poverty, there are wars, and that's real.

But the dreamy side, it has hope for world peace, no matter how far-fetched that seems. It believes that substituting plastic bags with reusable ones can save the ocean.

It understands that I spent too much money, but my new purse is really cute. It knows that pie is more than calories--it's memories of warm afternoons and a momentary escape from the reality of bad skin and messy bedrooms. It believes that the job I'm doing is a once in a lifetime opportunity, and something I'll never forget.

And I like to live in the dreamy side. It's happy here. And mostly carefree.

But I don't believe in ignorance.

We don't move forward by pretending everything is rainbows and sunshine. We can't elicit change if we fail to see the things that need it.

So, I wonder, where's the balance?

My inability to fix the things that need fixing, will drown me if I let it. But my failure to acknowledge truths--no matter how hard--will dull me, if I let it.

Without transition, I am going to switch to something almost entirely unrelated.

Harry Potter.

Please don't judge me for making a Harry Potter reference. We must find inspiration where we can.

I remember finishing the 7th Harry Potter book and being impressed with the symbolism, with the ties, with the seemingly perfect conclusion of everything.

But, for me, the most inspiring part of the Harry Potter series was much simpler than the story of the deathly hallows.

In one of the books (and my sister may disown me for not knowing which one) Professor Lupin teaches a class of wizards how to defeat a boggart. The boggart turns into the students' worst fears, and in order to overcome them, they must find a way to make to them funny.

They must laugh at their fears.

Now, if this were something that were going to be edited, my editor would surely make me remove this tidbit about Harry Potter. On account of it is unrelated, and it unnecessarily lengthens the article.

GOOD THING THIS ISN'T EDITED AND I CAN SAY WHATEVER I WANT, RIGHT?

Because it's true. Laughing at our fears demoralizes them. And if there's anything deserving of demoralization, it's my fears.

For example, last weekend, I was in New York, giving a presentation about the internship I did with Sport Diver magazine.

I talked about writing my first story. It was 150 words, and it took more than four hours to complete.

I told the room I was afraid if I didn't get the words just right, they would send me home and I would never become the journalist I wanted to be.

We all laughed. Because how dare I assume one 150-word story would define my career as a writer? What a silly fallacy my fear had created!

But it was a real fear. That I wouldn't be good enough. That I would let down the editor. That I would never become the person I wanted to be. And it all hinged on 150 words. You would take more than four hours too, wouldn't you?


So here's what I think, about life and about pie:

(And for the record, I maintain the right to change my opinion. Because if there's one thing I know, it's that love is the most important thing in this world. And if there are two things I know, it's that our minds our constantly subject to change and maybe we owe them the right to do so. Maybe.)

I think we shouldn't eat 10 pieces of pie and two scoops of ice cream every day.

Most days, we should eats salads, and legumes, and various varieties of vegetables.

I think we should read the news. We should be aware of the plights of our nation, our oceans, our world. We should send money to Red Cross when we can, or give a granola bar to the homeless person at the corner of the freeway exit.

I think we should look our fears in the face. We should acknowledge them. We should do everything we can to prepare to avoid them. We should forgive ourselves for having them, too.

And then we should laugh at those poo heads.

Seriously, picture your fears with poo on their heads if you have to.

There is a difference between being ignorant and happy. It's a fine line to walk. Because there is so much suffering in the world. I'm afraid, if I join in for all of it, there won't be time for anything else.

But compassion is essential. Without it we fail to do the most important thing, which is to love.

And so I think, we ought to try to hold on to happiness AND to share it. Who's to say we can't alleviate suffering by spreading light?


And so it seems, we should eat pie. On some days.

We should think we can change the world. Because we won't do anything we think we can't.
We can only do what we think we can.

Which is to say, we will only change the world if we're realistic enough to see the change that needs to be made, and unrealistic enough, to believe we can make that change.

Interesting dichotomy, no?


My friends, today is the day you take on the world.

But, you should probably brush your teeth first.

Well That's Not How I Was Planning to Spend My Afternoond

I woke up at 2:15pm on Sunday afternoon.

I was already two hours behind schedule in my plan to turn my life around and become a productive human being who does not regularly run four hours late for things.

I typed Netflix in my internet browser. Because, hey, I was already two hours behind. Why not make it three?

And that's when I started to wonder about the thunder outside.

Is this a hurricane? I thought. Should I be taking cover and sprouting lentils?

So I interrupted my Netflix search to check storm warnings in the area.

At 2:17pm, two minutes into my plan to ignore my plan to turn my life around and become a productive human, I read a tornado warning for my city.

Not two blocks down. Not maybe around the corner. Not next week around noon.

Now. In my neighborhood.

So I called my mom.

"How's your day?" she asked.

"Not that great. I took a nap and woke up to a tornado warning."

"What?"

"A TORNADO WARNING."

"Turn on the news."

The meteorologist told me it was serious, to take cover, and hole up somewhere on a bottom floor.

BUT I LIVE ON THE TOP FLOOR.

NOOOO!

The  wind started hitting my window, my anxiety kicked in, and I seriously contemplated asking the downstair neighbors to let me stay awhile.

But I was too scared to walk down the stairs.

So instead...

Wait for it.

I lifted my queen size mattress off my box spring, dragged it through the bathroom door (which took some maneuvering--at one point I didn't think it would fit) and put it right against the bathtub. And then I crawled inside the bathtub and sat there for more than an hour. Every time the wind got louder, I pulled the mattress closer to the bathtub. At one point, I tried lifting the mattress into the bathtub, but it wouldn't fit. In the event of a real natural disaster, I am going to need a better emergency plan.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world was hanging out at Disney World 5 minutes down the road.

Not me though. I was sitting in my bathtub fort, contemplating life and the possibility of my ceiling falling in.

By 4pm it was sunny outside.

The wind had subsided.

I think I made a taco.



And so concluded the great and terrible tornado warning of 2013.

Which was almost as bad as the terrible tornado warning of 2012. Which was only worse because I spent it in a Best Western hotel in Biloxi, MS. And I didn't even have any lentils to sprout there.

MAKE THE WRITER'S BLOCK STOP

You guys.

Sometimes I have philosophical conversations with myself about what I should be doing with my life. Where I want to end up. How I'm going to fund my sailing trip across the world. You know. Simple stuff like that.

And I decide that my best option is just to write my way around the world.

And I know that saying you want to be a writer is kind of like saying you want to be an actress or a pro athlete.  I'd take the acting gig, but not the pro athlete one. Volleyball gives me weird bruises on my arms. And I didn't practice dribbling enough as a child to play basketball.

So then I think, well there's only one way to be a writer. Write something.

Which seems simple.

BUT I CAN'T DO THE SIMPLE THINGS BECAUSE REALLY THE SIMPLE THINGS ARE MONSTERS.

That's right. Monsters.

I get through complex things--like Sudoku and loading the dishwasher--by turning on my Pandora and singing my way through the problem.

But I can't sing my way through the writing thing, because by the time I've finished singing the song I've forgot the beginning of the song and then, well, my creativeness is wasted.



In other news, today I dripped snot while someone was filming me.

I hope they weren't using a high definition camera.

Public Service Announcement

Hi.

I just wanted to let you know, if your car smells like sulfur every day for three weeks...

it is probably not because of farting squirrels.

Please have it checked.




Thank you for your ongoing support of this program.

To make a monetary donation...

Oh wait. Never mind.


Hugs and Kisses,

Alec

I have decided not to title this post, on account of I couldn’t decide between the following—

1. All Because I Could Not, Would Not, Did Not Buy a Store Bought Pie

2. Maybe This Is Why My Grandmother Was Hesitant to Accept My Help When I Offered to Make Cookies

3. The Difference Between Ariel and The Little Mermaid

4. There is Karo Syrup on My Pants

I almost decided not to write this post at all. That way you could spend the rest of the night playing a game akin to which of these things is not like the other. Except not. Not like that game at all.

Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way…

Well actually, I don’t really know where to go from here. I guess I could tell you how my evening started out with me glaring at a chocolate pie in Walmart and ended with me putting my Karo syrup-dipped pants in the hamper.

Oh yes. Good idea Alec. Let’s start there. 

Once upon a time, I was standing in Walmart, glaring at a chocolate pie.

I was going to bring the aforementioned chocolate pie to a Thanksgiving celebration. Because I couldn’t think of anything else which required zero minutes of prep time and fit into my budget of cheap.

Turkey was out of the question. For so many reasons. Not least among them I’m a vegetarian. Not most among them I don’t like when people look at me weird.

Anyway, mashed potatoes and rolls crossed off the list later, I was standing in Walmart, staring down a chocolate pie, trying to choose the one with the least whipped cream smeared across the top.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take a store bought pie to a Thanksgiving function.

Because what if the instructions for the Thanksgiving function were to bring some family Thanksgiving tradition food? I didn’t want the whole congregation thinking my family’s tradition was to buy sloppy chocolate pie from Walmart with whip cream smeared on top. I worked hard to ensure my family has holiday traditions. I’m not going to ruin that with one Walmart-pie fell swoop.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be One Fell Swoop.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be Useless Ramblings, Which No One Quite Understands About Karo Syrup and the Little Mermaid.

Don’t worry. I’m getting to the part about the Little Mermaid.

So I shrugged at the pie and walked away.

And then I started thinking about everything my family has ever eaten.

Yams, grape juice and apple cider later, I decided to make chocolate-covered, peanut butter rice Krispies.

Because even though I can’t remember if I have ever actually eaten those on Thanksgiving, I know I have eaten them at my grandparents’ house, and I know they have Karo syrup in them. And if anything SCREAMS holidays, it Karo Syrup.

Sorry for the capitalization. I really wanted to drive the point home there.

So I set off to the 5000 aisles in Walmart for 4 ingredients.

I’ll skip the part where I buy Advil and check out, and drive home, and unload my groceries, and watch a Tinker Bell movie while my milk goes bad.

So then I’m stirring all the ingredients. Dropping spoons into Karo syrup. Stuff like that. When, all of a sudden, I look at my rice krispies and see—DUN, DUN, DUN—they’re actually rice krispy treats.

Did you know Kellogg’s does that? They make a rice krispy treat cereal.

Here’s where the convoluted bit about the Little Mermaid comes in. See, me—or my sister (I can’t remember who)—used to call the movie “The Little Mermaid” Ariel. Probably because Cinderella was called Cinderella. And Sleeping Beauty was called Sleeping Beauty. (Although turns out Sleeping Beauty has a real name--Aurora. Weird. Right?) So Ariel should get her name written on the front of a VHS too. It’s only fair.

Point is. In my childhood head, the Little Mermaid was also named Ariel.

In my adult head, Rice Krispies cereal is also named Rice Krispy Treats. And so when the box read, “Rice Krispy Treats,” I said, “Perfect,” and bought all 11 cups and 4 ounces of it.

So now I have marshmallow-ridden Rice Krispies, covered in a peanut-butter, Karo-syrup, white-sugar concoction, topped with chocolate and butterscotch.

Want to come visit me? You can have some.

Fair warning: they don’t look pretty. They look like… well I won’t go into detail. But I will say there are several shades of brown. And they’re... umm... chunky.

Funny. I remember them being pretty and less chunked when my grandma makes them.  

I thought maybe I could salvage my dessert’s aesthetics by drizzling melted butterscotch atop, but then I remembered the Karo syrup, white sugar and marshmallow that is already seething inside. I decided not to add extra butterscotch. 

Side note: I have now created a non-vegetarian dish (marshmallows contain gelatin which contains ground bones or something) to bring to this Thanksgiving function. I might as well have cooked a turkey.

I changed my mind. I want the title of this to be Highly Educational, But Completely Unrelated, And Sometimes Difficult to Follow, Parenthetical Phrases. 

I think that pretty much covers all my main points. Except for the bit about the Karo syrup on my pants. But you figured that much out on your own. Right?

See, what did I tell you? Just like a game of which one is not like the other.

Except not.

Not like that game at all. 

I think my neighbors are having a party upstairs.

Apartment living is awesome.

Also, I can't sleep until I do my laundry and take out my contacts.

But blah, I'd prefer not to do either of those things.

So in lieu of getting 8 hours, I give you my first ever TEXTS OUT OF CONTEXT!

Please hold your applause.

Because it wasn't even my idea.

It was Jessica's idea.

We're not on a first name basis or anything. I'd just prefer not to type out her, as my British friend at work calls it, surname. It seems a little stalkerish. Or something.

Jessica seems cool. I'm sure she wouldn't mind too terribly that I have assumed first name basis. I'm sure she also won't mind that I've stolen her idea.

After all, she told me to steal it.

Okay, fine--she didn't tell me, specifically, to steal it. She just told the blog world to steal it. And sometimes I feel like the Pioneer Woman and I are the only people in the blog world left.

Well actually, it's just the Pioneer Woman left. I'm just an occasional weird relative visitor.

Anyway... about those out-of-context texts.

TA DA!



1. The car in front of me has a foot out its window. Do you think they're trying to flip me off?


2. Dang, if I knew you wanted to treasure it I would have brought two--one for drinking, one for treasuring. Next time. In Eloy.

3. I drove all the way home!

4. You don't often think of eye candy and Walmart going together.

5. I'm just here to make sure your rap career takes off. I guess you could say I'm a logician.

6. I feel like I should warn you, since we're approaching 10pm I could fall asleep at any moment without notice.

7a. You can't wear them in France. But you can wear them to nurse mystery parties.

7b. Nurse mystery parties? I've never been to one of those!

8. Dumbledore. He has a beard.

9. That's great news. I can finally stop hiding Sally in the bathtub.

10. Boomshakalaka.



Good night everyone!

Oh hey there

I might make this blog private.

For like a week. Or two.

I don't intend to write anything during this week(s).

I'm just being weird and vague and maybe I'll explain it someday, but probably not.

I'm sorry, this is the type of thing that people write on their blogs that drives me crazy.

For a minute. But then I go back to living my life and I forget that I'm dying to know why suddenly they must make their blog private right this second.

Anyway...

Once I start writing posts I'll be all public and what not again.

Sorry again for being all, 'I'm writing, I'm not writing, I'm moving, I'm not moving, I'm private, I'm public.'

Someday I will make up my mind.

Probably.

You Know? You know!

Guys, Word Press hates me. So what if I want to put an extra equal sign in my html code? You don’t have to go blow up on me. Geesh.

It’s alright though because I haven’t had much to say lately.  Because I love my internship, and loving things makes me feel all braggy. You know, like: GUESS WHAT I DID TODAY? I WENT SCUBA DIVING IN A SPRING. AND THERE WAS A CAVERN AT THE BOTTOM!

No one wants to hear that.

So instead of saying that, I’ll pose to you a question--

Have you ever had one of those days at work where you’re sitting in front of the computer screen, trying to focus on the words, but all you see is the blinding light of the monitor, telling you, “Close your eyes, go to sleep, la la la lullaby”?

You know…

 You went to bed the night before praying that you’d feel renewed and inspired come morning, but instead you wake up feeling like you haven’t slept at all, because you had a dream that your mom sent you to a doctor’s office where you have to pay for parking, and ‘what kind of doctor can’t afford their own parking lot?!’ you wonder, and then you have to come home from work at lunch time and load up on caffeine, but you don’t have a bottle opener, so you try to use a spoon, a knife and your hand, but that doesn’t work, so you check again, and it turns out the corkscrew in the drawer is actually a bottle opener, too, so you pop that Mexican Coca Cola open and chug, and then you eat two pickles on a piece of bread.

It’s a two pickles on a piece of bread kind of day.

Which doesn’t quite compare to a, I literally have nothing in my cupboard except kidney beans, kind of day, but still. It’s no veggie burger and milkshake either.

YOU KNOW?

But it’s OK, because sometimes a pickle sandwich can bring you back to your roots and help you remember who you are.

And even though the who you are stuff is a little wishy washy still, you’re working on it--one weirdy food analogy at a time.

That’s right. I said weirdy. 

Hi

For reasons I can't explain coherently, I am writing here now.

 If you would like to follow me as I trapeze gracefully (haha) across the country, you may do so. If you don't want to, you don't have to.

 You can stay here and stare at my blog reel hoping that someone else updates their blog. Most days, that's what I do, too.

I think I'm out of things to say. At least for a while.

Thanks for playing along.

Paris

Life is weird.

Despite all your best planning, figuring and dreaming, you never know what you're going to get.


On one very normal day in November, my family was pulling out of the parking lot of a Courtyard hotel in Page, Arizona. We were coming home from two Thanksgivings, one in Logan and one in St. George.

In the hotel lobby, my mom and I ran into people speaking French.

I was thirty minutes into French-teaching podcasts, and I listened intently to the french speakers' conversation. I was pretty sure if I just focused hard enough, I would be able to understand what they were saying. After all, I did have 30 minutes worth of French instruction.

I didn't understand a single word. Well maybe one. Oui.

My sisters and I got into our rental call named Bertha, and we pulled out of the parking lot.

Then my mom said to my dad, "So are you going to tell them?"

"No, you go ahead," my dad said.

If I remember correctly, this conversation was not light. And so I immediately assumed someone was dying. Because that's what I do. I assume someone is dying.

"What?" cries that backseat. "What are you going to tell us?"

My sister's sound excited, and I'm just scared. And while we try to figure out what's going on, my parents sit in the front debating over who should tell us what's going on.

"It was your idea," my mom says. "You tell them."

My dad ho's and hums and then says, "Do you guys want to go to Paris?"

My sisters and give each other sideways glances with half smiles. Because what kind of question is that? Did we hear right? Is this real life?

I can't remember exactly what came next, but basically we asked a series of questions verifying the validity of his statement.

"Is this a rhetorical question?"

"Are you talking about the eiffel tower in Vegas?"

"Is this a trick question?"

"Why are you asking this?"

And most importantly,

"Are you serious?"


After a half hour or so, we had nailed down that this was in fact a real question about the real Paris, and our half smiles turned to full ones.

We decided on spring.

Because summers are busy.

And I committed to learning more than a half-hour worth of French.



Three and a half months later, I am home from Paris.

In a way, the trip was everything I thought it would be.

I expected to be inspired.

And I was.

I expected to eat incredible food.

And I did.

I expected to be amazed.

And I was.

I expected to fall in love.

And I did.


Paris was magic.

And that's exactly what I expected.

London Calling

Today, I met the Queen of England.

And by met, I mean I saw her driving into Westminster Abby.

And by saw her, I mean I saw the big, red, double-decker bus intentionally blocking her as she arrived to Westminster Abby.

I will have to show you a picture of her sometime.

The red bus, that is.

Call Me Nichole Parks

Well, it's past 12am here. Which means plenty of girls across the Mountain Standard Time Zone are watching Rachael McAdams wake up in a hospital bed with no recollection of her undying love for Channing Tatum.

Some of the movie goers are likely already crying. But they should save their tears. Because, let's face it, it's probably only going to get more sad.

I am not watching this movie because:

1. I thought I would be asleep by now.

2. The last Nicholas Sparks movie I saw was such a disappointment that I vowed to think long and hard before I paid seven and a half dollars to see another movie based on a book by the man who loves dying characters.

I *now* realize this movie is not actually based on a Nicholas Sparks book. BUT I wrote this post before coming upon that knowledge, AND it's close enough to Nicholas Sparksish style for me, SO I'm going to leave this post as is.

Besides, if someone else can turn a based-on-a-true story into a quasi-Nicholas-Sparks sap fest, so can I.

Which is why I have decided to spend the next 20 minutes visualizing myself as the main character of a Nicholas Sparks novel.

--Not the one who dies. Obviously.--

Well that reason, AND because I am bored and am avoiding productive things. Like sleep.

I think if Nicholas Sparks wrote my life, this is how it would go--

(Note: I am changing my name to Nichole Parks for this post on account of using my real name for this display of unadulterated sappiness might make me gag.)

It didn't take long.

Nichole Parks rarely did things quickly. In fact, in fourth grade her classmates issued a complaint about her during circle time, citing her propensity to slowly eat lunch.

But when Nichole moved to a small town in the South and met Brady Bobby Billy Joe she fell in love faster than a kite catches the wind.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the movies and said "Nichole. I like you more than I like peach pie with sugar on top. And that's saying something."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe took Nichole to the fair. And the fair was nothing like the temporary carnival set up in the Saver's parking lot that Nichole went to once. So Nichole rode the ferris wheel and nary even fretted for her life.

Then Nichole played the piano for Brady Bobby Billy Joe. After, of course, they walked a few circles around a nearby swimming hole that was filled with thousands of fuzzy baby ducklings.

It was love at first note. For both of them.

Two years later, after having been split by the great earthquake that divided the soft South from the real South, Nichole and Brady Bobby Billy Joe reunited in a trendy, metropolitan cafe where Nichole had started training to become a barista-- a day job, while she worked toward her real dream of being a teacher/crossword writer.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe ran to Nichole to sweep her up in his arms and apologize for not being on her side of the earthquake split (think Land Before Time if you're having trouble picturing the earthquake separation).

Unfortunately, Nichole had always struggled with names, and she stuttered as she attempted o remember all four of Brady Bobby Billy Joe's names.

"B.. b... b... Baby, it's good to see you," Nichole tried.

"You. You don't remember?" Tears filled Brady Bobby Billy Joe's eyes (and the audience sobs).

"I'm sorry. It's just, it's been so long," Nichole said, letting out a desperate sob. "But I'm so happy to see you. I just wish I wasn't married to your brother."

"I'm sick," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said, ignoring Nichole's confession.

"Say it isn't so," Nichole cried.

"It's true. Hundreds were affected after the earthquake. And I'm one of them. I have Valley Fever."

Another sob escaped Nichole's small mouth.

"Are you sure?" Nichole asked.

Brady Bobby Billy Joe looked sullen. "Yes, the x-ray confirmed what I already knew."

"I'll leave your brother," Nichole said. "I only loved him because he reminded me of you. I'll go to the doctor with you for check ups and make sure you get plenty of fluids."

"It's too late," Brady Bobby Billy Joe said. "It's too late."

Then Brady Bobby Billy Joe walked out of the cafe. And Nichole mixed tears into an otherwise perfect Frappuccino.

The End.